A Modest Proposal
by Smoltenica
Summary: Fastforward four years from "Ease". Or, four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Seamus Finnegan and Daphne Greengrass holiday in Dublin. They visit the Hugh Lane Gallery in a fic featuring more fluff than a Pomeranian and more literary references than plot. Then again, as James Joyce has shown us, plot is overrated, right? Gratuitous use of Harry Clarke's stain-glass windows.


"Do you like it?"

Seamus was hovering, half nervously, by her shoulder. She could feel his chin and lower cheek brushing the side of her temple, could feel his anxious fear that he had taken her to a wrong place, to see a wrong thing.

She stretched her arm across her body to give his arm a small squeeze.

"It's beautiful."

It was – or, rather, _they _were – the twin windows with their delicate floral arches, the lead twisted to mimic a curling vine; the dappled, almost glittering images below; a girl with a vivid peach dress; the frames swathed in a deep sapphire. In one panel, the lead curved like a goblet; beneath it, a lady stood with a thin, long candle in shimmering white; a small stained glass window scattered light onto a bed. Speaking in the softness of the darkened alcove seemed strangely sacrilegious.

Seamus shifted behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and she leaned against him; warm and steady.

"Me Mam told me the story," he said, his voice low in her ear. "_The Eve of St Agnes _by your new favourite Muggle, Keats."

"He's not my new favourite Muggle," Daphne smiled, "I've only just discovered him." Then she thought about what he had said, and smiled again. "The poem was written by John Keats, but you know the story through your mam?"

_Typical Gryffindor, _were the words she wanted to say, _brave in everything but fearful when it comes to books. _Seamus must have heard, though, for he laughed gently, a knowing laugh that brushed her ear straight to her heart.

"It's a poem."

"Poetry is lovely!" Daphne tried to twist in his arms to face him. "Muggle poetry is some of the most beautiful poetry I've read!"

Seamus' grip tightened, and his laugh did not end. "Say it a bit louder, Daphne, why don't you? It's not like there are laws about wizard secrecy or regulations about using the memory charm."

Maybe once, not even that long ago, she would have been nettled by this; defensive about her words, accusative of him. _Why don't you speak a little louder, Seamus? _she had snapped back one time, and he had looked so surprised by her response that he had almost tilted the mead out of the small glass he was holding.

_It was just for the craic, _he had protested.

Now, she was surprised how his words rolled off, water on a vine, and she even felt the slightest hint of a smile tug at her face.

"But it's a _poem, _Seamus, not a _curse. _Besides, Keats' poetry is beautiful!"

"Astoria's beautiful and I'm not interested in her," Seamus grinned, and pressed a sneaky kiss to her temple.

"You're incorrigible."

"Still don't know what that means," said Seamus cheerfully, dropping a kiss on the crown of her head.

"Sure you don't," she said drily, not bothering to point out for the hundredth time that people kissing her hair irritated her. "Anyhow, you're stalling. What is the story?"

"Oh, it's a dramatic tale," he gleefully whispered, the hot air tickling her ear. She shivered. "Full of intrigue and hate and _shenanigans. _Not fit for innocent ladies."

She elbowed him.

"It was the eve of the day of St Agnes," he said, and his voice became almost lilting in its intensity, "when young women meet at midnight and pray to St Agnes, to meet the lad who'll marry them. But Madeline had already found the man she loved. Porphyro, sworn enemy to her line."

He gestured at the man the swirling blue cloak, sword drawn. The tiny jewels on his hilt glimmered still.

"It was the eve of the day of St Agnes, and the rain was lashing, and the wind beat on him like a gale. But tonight was the night, the night he had planned."

His voice dropped so low she felt, rather than heard, the words settle on her ear.

"Planned what?"

"So Porphyro went to the castle where Madeline lived," he continued as if she had not spoken, but pulled her closer and rested his chin against her hair. "He braved entry, guided by Angela, to find Madeline and steal her away."

"Is Angela-"

She heard, rather than saw, Seamus' wounded expression. "I'm telling you a _story, _Daphne. A _story. _And you're interrupting."

"But which one-"

He mock-impatiently gestured at a woman in a flared orange-crimson skirt.

In the pause, a murmur of feet and a patter of voices filtered through the alcove, faces peering around Daphne and Seamus, fingers pointing.

"Just like the window at Bewley's," a woman's voice said, and,

"Mammy, let me see!"

Daphne tugged Seamus over to the side until the feet and voices pattered away into the light.

"You can continue your story," she said when they had gone, reaching up to hold his hand.

"I thought I was the impatient one."

"You were in the middle of a story," she reminded him. "And I'm not going until you've finished it."

He laughed, deep, low, and still, even after all these years, in that moment, something unfurled within her, welcoming, leaning against that sturdy laugh, that had seen so much sadness and pain and still was not silenced.

"If I tell you that Porphyro manages to steal Madeline away safely in the night, will you be content with that?"

"Just like that? Are you-"

"Not a joke, I swear by our lady," Seamus said solemnly, turning her around. His eyes were bright as the shimmering colours in the windows. "It's a happy ending. He manages to steal her away in the night."

She could hear it in his voice, the softness that snaked in, could feel it in his gaze, that he was not speaking about the windows.

"You didn't steal me away in the night," she said gently.

"May as well have," he muttered, going a little red. "Your parents-"

"My parents love you," she said firmly.

Seamus snorted.

"Well- they love the idea of you," she amended. "They aren't crazy about the fact that you're Irish-"

He snorted again.

"- but you're – well- you're…"

She trailed off, not entirely certain what to say.

_You know what to say, _Astoria in her mind was saying haughtily. _Seamus is a Gryffindor half-blood who's friends with Harry Potter. Mother and Father are wetting themselves with relief. _

"I'm an Irish nobody with no connections in dangerous Dublin," Seamus said lightly, but she could hear the silent quiver of anxiety rolling outward.

Astoria in her head won out.

"You're a Gryffindor, you're a half-blood, you're friends with Harry Potter – there's nothing my parents would love more than for you to take me and marry me and save our family from infamy," she said bluntly.

There was a silent moment, and part of Daphne began to panic that she had stepped too far, had broken the soft darkness with a harsh light, and nothing would be quite the same. Then-

"Your Da didn't seem that keen," Seamus laughed weakly.

He _laughed. _She laughed, too, and twined her fingers with his as he lowered his arm and she uncurled herself, moving slowly to the light of the hall.

It was only when they were moving to the atrium, where a woman bustled past them with to straighten a row of chairs, that something pulled and tugged in her mind.

"Wait. My father didn't seem that keen?"

Seamus froze.

And she saw in that moment, her father, stern and anxious, as she moved to disapparate; heard her mother's excited and curiously sad quivering, _take care, Daphne, my little girl; _saw them whirl and merge together as she pulled away, and there, Seamus, standing ahead, the light of the sun filling the doorway.

"_Oh." _

Seamus swore softly.

"I didn't mean to let it slip, Daphne, can you forget-"

A light giddiness curled inside, catching at edges and bursting into dappled gold.

"You spoke with Father?"

Seamus scuffed the floor nervously with his left foot.

"D'you reckon your parents would've let you come with me to dubious Dublin if I hadn't proven I had- honourable intentions?"

To his credit, he only blushed slightly.

"Daphne, I meant to do it all differently. I meant to take you by Grafton St, maybe buy you some of those flowers you like – take you down to Merrion, with the music and the stalls, and-"

She was not sure if she could trust herself to speak.

Figures, people, passed by her on either side, blurs of colour and wind and sound.

"And- well- Daphne. Will you?"

And she could see it so clearly, so vividly, the sun behind the clouds and the grassy knoll, and the smile stretched across her face, so wide it almost hurt, and she said the words, almost the same words (she could have sworn they were the same words) from four years ago.

"Will I what?"

She moved closer to him, and was half surprised in her mind that her legs remembered how to walk.

"It would be so much easier to answer if you asked me a proper question, you know."

And she could see in his eyes that he knew, too, and he laughed, and rather dramatically, knelt on the white floor, light spreading from the door behind him.

"Daphne Greengrass, will you be my wife?"

"Yes," she said, a laugh bubbling up, blooming. She covered her face with her hands, uncovered her face, reached out even as Seamus reached out, clasped her, drew her near. "Yes, I will, yes."

He whirled her around, and she laughed, and she thought she heard some people cheering in the near background, and as, somewhere inside, Porphyro woke Madeline and fled into the unquiet night, Seamus dramatically and completely unnecessarily swept her up, carrying her out the door into the light of the soft autumn day.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Why the title? Why the proposal? (Or why Daphne's acceptance words, anyway?). Well, Dublin is a writing city and Irish literary references are so much win. Bit ironic that my story is somewhat lacking on the literary side but oh well, I'll share it anyway in celebration of the fact that I am now living in Dublin! This does not excuse the lack of plot, though it can explain a little; I happened to see Harry Clarke's stained glass windows tonight and fell utterly in love, and hey, hello story without a plot. _


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